


The Boy with the Black Marks

by bluetears07



Series: Salt and Ash [2]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Age Difference, Coming of Age, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After felling his first foe, Tristan enlists young Galahad to help him mark his coming of age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rife with historical inaccuracies and non existent cultural folkways (as in the film itself) as there are many tribes that made up the Sarmatian people and the film is rather sketchy on where each boy hails from. 
> 
> In the first two chapters Galahad is around twelve or thirteen while Tristan is eighteen or nineteen.

Just as the bright winter sun begins to crest the horizon, Galahad hears the familiar shouting along the southern stretch of the wall. The great bellowing call of riders approaching the garrison sends a cold shock of fear skipping along the length of his spine, anxious hope churning his stomach. Without a second thought, he bolts up, abandoning his half-finished breakfast.

“Galahad!” Gawain calls after him, righting the fallen bench.

Galahad scrambles for the long steps. He tries taking them two at a time; short legs stumbling, huffing small clouds of mist by the time he reaches the rampart. The freezing stone grates against his palms as he peers out through the first empty crenel he finds. A long caravan, lead by Arthur’s scouting party, escort a fresh century of soldiers protecting some high-ranking Roman citizen and his family traveling north, slowly snakes its way across the open field. The cadre of familiar faces returning appears far fewer than those who set out not five days ago.

Frantically, he squints against the sun, searching the faces of each man in the pack of Sarmatians riding with Arthur. One dark, bobbing head in particular catches his attention. The easy tilt of his shoulders and jut of hips, the cocky nonchalance Galahad once disastrously tried to emulate, giving him away.

His heart soars at the sight.

“Tristan!” Galahad shouts the moment he spots the older boy.

A solemn face tilts up at the sound, scanning along the crenellation for its source. Galahad holds up a hand, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet to draw the other’s eye. A slow upturn at the corner of Tristan’s lips and a shallow nod are the only answering sign of recognition. One of the other Sarmatian soldiers, perhaps Dagonet, judging by his broad bulk, nudges Tristan in the shoulder, shaking with laughter. Galahad drops his hand, a hot flush rising up his neck to stain his cheeks. Still, it warms Galahad greatly to see the gesture from Tristan, as blatant as any show of affection from the reserved warrior.

From his vantage point on the battlement, Galahad watches the procession make their way to the main gate until Tristan disappears from sight. Rushing back down the steps, eHHehehe stops short to hail Bors and Dagonet with a broad grin, receiving a perfunctory ruffle to his curls as they pass by on their way to the stables. Behind them, Tristan dismounts, leading the dappled mare toward Galahad. The dour expression remains fixed upon his features despite the young boy beaming up at him. He claps the boy on the shoulder, punctuating the touch with a firm squeeze in silent greeting before steering them in the direction of the stables.

Mirroring Tristan’s reserve, Galahad takes the opportunity to closely examine the tall boy walking beside him. His eyes linger on the tangle of disheveled braids hanging limp and greasy just above Tristan’s shoulders. Layers of grime cling to the edges of his face and neck, as if hastily washed as an afterthought that morning. Mud and other dark stains liter his rumpled braccae and tunic. Even the scruff he started growing months ago appears to have filled out more in the days since Galahad last saw him.

He seems older.

“You look a mess,” Galahad states in blunt Latin, his lilting accent far more naturalized than anything Tristan could hope to achieve. The roguish glint in his bright eyes tempers the brusque words. Tristan huffs a laugh at the lad’s welcome as he brushes past him to lead his horse to her stall.

“I do not have the skill to retie them,” Tristan explains, gingerly removing his mare’s leather bridle, soothing a few fingers through her forelock before turning to focus entirely on Galahad.

The boy blushes when he realizes Tristan must have caught him staring earlier at the unkempt plaits.

A rare smile, strangely soft and wistful around the edges, flickers across Tristan’s face. The boy nearly buckles under the steady gaze. It feels like a heavy weight encircling his neck, dragging him inexorably closer to the warm body of his companion. The urge to embrace, to touch, to search him out for any hidden wound and know he has returned whole, overwhelms him. He nearly takes a halting step toward the other. Instead, he glances away, wrapping his arms tight around his own chest and shifting his feet to throw out a bony hip.

“You are a poor pupil then,” he teases, seeking solace in their easy banter rather than delving into the depths of soft words and strange emotions burning beneath the dead calm in Tristan’s eyes. After all, Galahad knows he has shown the other boy how to put the plaits in his hair countless times.

“Perhaps the teacher should bear the blame,” Tristan tosses over his shoulder as he finishes untacking his horse.

Galahad allows the taunt to slide; entranced by the way Tristan’s horse stretches her neck to nuzzle against the boy’s side. He begins rubbing her down with careful, measured sweeps of his arm. The mare lets out a soft nickering as he pampers her.

“I’m surprised the others could stand the sight of you.” Galahad makes a show of pulling at Tristan’s mud-caked sleeve before wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Let alone the stench.” A spirited grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “Or, is this how mighty Tristan shall slay his many enemies?”

“Galahad,” Tristan’s voice dips low, head bowed.

The pleasant pull between them shifts, plummeting to settle like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

“You—” Galahad comes up short, looking at Tristan anew.

Tristan felled his first foe.

With a sharp nod, he blindly follows Tristan back to their barracks, mind racing with the promise he made months ago when Tristan was deemed ready to accompany the older soldiers on missions beyond the garrison walls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing on several different sources for ancient tattooing methods/customs, mostly from Siberia and Austrian/Italian Alps--closest place to the Black Sea (where I imagine Tristan is from)--but still defiantly, firmly, wildly historically inaccurate.

Beneath the rough wool blanket, buried under the farthest corner of Tristan’s lumpy mattress, he draws out a roll of stained leather. He lays the item out upon the small wooden table between his and Galahads bunks. Unraveling the case reveals a fine bone needle, sharpened to a wicked point, a thick bale of dried seagrass, harvested from the shallows of the distant sea where Tristan was born, and a small bowl. Slowly, he runs a finger along the rim of the shallow dish, tipping over the edge to clear away a thin layer of dust.

Weeks ago, before Tristan’s first excursion, in the quiet just after dinner, with Galahad’s nimble hands twisting his hair, he explained the ritual. Drawing lines in the earth, he told him how the same marks were tattooed upon the faces of his forefathers for generations. A celebration of their first kill, of becoming a warrior, a man. For a brief time, Galahad privately mourned that he could not remember such a signifier or ceremony in his own tribe, and gladly agreed to help his friend when the time came. They practiced several times after that evening, using the clean flesh of a freshly slaughtered boar, with an attentive Tristan guiding Galahad’s hands to show the boy how his tribe marked their skin with bone and ash.

Galahad watches silently as Tristan dips the ends of the dried seagrass into the oil lamp’s dancing flame, waiting until it catches light before placing the burning sheaf into the bowl. From the folds of his tunic he draws out a fist full of rags, splattered with dried blood and blue woad. He hands the bundle over for Galahad to formally inspect. Between the rags he discovers a frayed ginger plait matted with flecks of blood. His chest tightens at the sight, a sharp twinge constricting his breath.

The tattered talisman of Tristan’s slain foe.

With a curt nod, carefully belaying the riot of conflicting emotions warring in his heart, he hands the items back. He firmly ignores the fear and panic bubbling up inside him, the myriad of questions and tries to focus on remembering his role. Reverently, Tristan places each one into the vessel. He murmurs a few words in his unfamiliar dialect, breathing in deeply after each phrase. With Tristan’s guidance, Galahad holds his hands over the flame, a purification of streaming silvery smoke curling about his fingers. Together, they wait for the fire burn out, the pungent odor of burning hair and seagrass filling their small barracks.

With the ash prepared, protected by the wide palm of his hand, Tristan leads them out through the eastern gate. He takes them well beyond the Roman walls and stone alleyways, to sit in the broad, sunny fields bordering the garrison. The ceaseless din of the bustling fort seems strangely distant in the open air.

Despite the creeping cold, the ground has yet to freeze, leaving the surrounding meadow still soft and pleasant beneath their weight. Tristan settles gracefully on the grass, long legs bent at the knee to prop up his elbows, heels digging into the earth. For a moment, Galahad stands struck by the startling serenity of the vision before him. An odd notion overtakes him, the yearning to capture the sight, his dear friend, unmarked, unadorned with the heavy mantle of manhood. A fleeting nostalgia, far beyond his years, for that which has yet to even pass him by.

“Gala—” Cradling the pot of ash, Tristan glances up, squinting into the sun, cutting himself off when Galahad slowly kneels in the wide space between his splayed legs. “Remember…” Tristan demonstrates, scratching his ancestral design in the patch of dirt beside them.

Curling a knuckle beneath Tristan’s chin, fascinated by the strange new rasp of wiry whiskers, he angles the other’s head to best catch the morning sunlight. Tristan, pliant as always whenever Galahad braids his hair, allows him the gentle nudging and steering without protest or sour expression. He undoes two of the neglected plaits obscuring Tristan’s face. Combing his fingers through the lank locks, soothing through a few snags, Galahad quickly braids them back, twisting away from the other’s face. Fingertips graze the shell of Tristan’s ear as Galahad tucks the new plait out of the way.

Seeing the look of satisfaction at his newly bared face, Tristan offers up the bowl. Dabbing a finger in the soot, Galahad shuffles closer on his knees. Delicately, he smears the chalky cinders along the crest of Tristan’s cheekbone. The contact, bare flesh separated by a dusting of ash, is warm and yielding. Intimate. Yet, it remains a mere tease, doing nothing to quell the instinctual need that arose so vehemently within him upon the older boy’s return. He reaches up with his free hand to touch Tristan’s chin under the guise of inspecting the design.

Galahad checks and rechecks the drawing in the dirt before faithfully recreating the same markings on the opposite cheek. Using the blunt nail of his little finger, he adds the thin line through the tapered end of the two streaks on both sets. Sitting back, he admires his handiwork before allowing Tristan to examine the marks in the polished curve of his blade.

He begins to wonder who would have performed this ceremony if Tristan had never been taken from his homeland. Galahad had never had the heart to ask that particular question. Would it have been his father or mother, that is if a boy such as Tristan ever truly had a family? A mentor or a chieftain? Perhaps it would have been Tristan’s loyal shield-bearer, the ceremony forever binding them as brothers-in-arms. An enduring oath of fraternity ingrained in each pinprick, every fleck of ash. Perhaps Tristan would be bound to reciprocate the gesture for his beloved companion. The thought sets a blaze in his breast. Galahad tries to quell the swelling pride filling him at being chosen for such a task; tattooing Tristan’s marks of manhood, the ghost of his touch scrawled across the boy’s face in the ash and blood.

“Good.” Tristan gestures for Galahad to continue.

With one hand braced against the curve of Tristan’s cheek, pulling the skin taut between forefinger and thumb as Tristan showed him, Galahad poises the bone needle over the mark. The sharp tip hovers, dangling on the precipice of piercing unblemished flesh. He tries to recall the way Tristan held his hand, how much pressure, how deep to cut. Nothing but a jumble of sense memories tumbles through his mind.

A strange, quivering waver grips his soul as his eyes flit to Tristan’s, hypnotized by the warmth and rare glint of trust. The reality, the true weight of his duty, the pain he will inevitably cause, the irrevocable changes to the face he has grown to admire, coalesce into an untamed jittering tremor coursing through his body. His breath shortens, stuttering through dry, parted lips.

Who will Tristan become?

“I don—” Galahad begins to pull away.

“ _Yes, you can_.” Tristan grabs his wrist, slipping into Galahad’s native tongue with ease. Between the two, they rarely speak anything other than Latin these days, only a few familiar whispers in the night when sleep eludes them. The sudden shift jolts Galahad out of his daze. “ _Steady_ ,” Tristan commands, eyes boring into him. Beneath the hard edge Galahad sees the undercurrent of anxiety, not fear of the act itself, but the loss of it; one more birthright denied. “ _Purposeful_.” The words, pitched low and rough, coupled with the glimmer of devastation lurking deep within Tristan’s gaze, galvanize him. He must find the sterner stuff within, for Tristan.

“ _Purposeful_ ,” Galahad nods, wetting his lips.

The bone needle pierces the skin, just a single shallow puncture before Galahad quickly withdraws the tip.

“ _Good_ ,” Tristan murmurs encouragement, keeping his head still as he speaks.

With Tristan’s quiet voice leeching out the last tentative tendrils of his dread, Galahad pricks the boy’s cheek again. And again. Over and over, shallow and even, tracing along the edges of the ancient motif. Tristan endures the countless little pinpricks, unflinching as ever. Though, Galahad catches sight of the tendons flexing in the other’s forearm, a white-knuckled fist curling in the loose fabric of Tristan’s own braccae. Along the round curve of his bearded jaw, beneath his fingers, the coiled muscles jump with the clenching of his teeth.

“ _The ash_ ,” Tristan prompts, holding up the bowl with one hand.

Galahad retraces the marking, pressing the fresh coat of soot to the staccato strip of wounds and watches the blackness seep into the broken flesh. The chard remains of Tristan’s homeland eternally embedded, rooted, buried beneath his very skin. He wipes away the excess, revealing the thin outline of the marks. He sets about filling in the remainder with solid black.

Once completing the pattern on Tristan’s right cheek, he relaxes back on his heels to look at the finished design. Glancing down to compare it with the sketch one last time, Galahad catches the other’s fingers slacken during the brief respite from the stinging pain. Tristan’s knuckles carelessly brush against his sides. The hand clutching the pot of ashes has sunk so low that the back of his hand nearly rests on Galahad’s folded knees. He raises the needle back up, ready to start the process all over again on the opposite cheek.

“ _Wait_.” A broad palm hastily collides with the slight curve of Galahad’s waist, both restraining the boy and grounding himself in a single motion. The other hand falls to lie across Galahad’s knees, still protecting his cinders.

Tristan’s placid expression quickly melts into a grimace. Only then does Galahad notice the thin sheen of sweat dotting his forehead, skin pale and clammy to the touch. Appearing to wilt, shoulders rolling forward, his head hung low, eyelids fluttering shut. He takes several deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and out his mouth.

“ _Tristan_?” Galahad presses the back of his hand to the older boy’s forehead, wiping away some of the cold sweat. A sigh slips from Tristan’s lips as he leans into the warmth. The surprisingly sweet sound rekindles that peculiar desire for closeness flickering in Galahad’s chest, amplifying it tenfold. He brushes away the layer of perspiration, skimming his fingertips along the damp hairline. A rare twist of vulnerability and uneasy contentment softens Tristan’s features, the harsh lines gentled under the tender care.

They sit in silence, one of Galahad’s hands stroking over tangled locks until a hint of color begins to return to Tristan’s face. His breathing evens out to a steady, more natural pace.

“ _Continue_ ,” Tristan instructs, gingerly drawing himself back up. The first insistent sounds of a full-hearted protest die on Galahad’s clumsy tongue the moment he meets the other’s resolute stare. Stubborn resolve written in every notch of his rigid line of his spine, the hard set of broad shoulders, the tight set of his mouth, Galahad ignores his instincts. Instead of waiting longer for Tristan to recover, he begins the second set of marking. The hand framing his waist remains. Casual yet intimate, a pleasant fluttering stirring in his stomach, the pad of a thumb absentmindedly strokes over his ribs.

Both boys lose track of time. Only when the sun passes its zenith does Galahad finish his task. Hundreds of jabs, several coatings of thick soot layered over the miniscule punctures until bold black lines decorate the wide arch of familiar cheekbones. Wiping away the last few smudges of ash, Galahad looks upon the new face before him.

The marks suit him.

Tristan drags a finger through the ashes, the burnt seagrass and remains of his foe, and traces a double line across the width of Galahad’s face, just below his eyes. Those same fingers, each one hot like a firebrand, wrap around the back of Galahad’s neck, tangling in the dark curls covering his nape. A rough thumb swipes along the sensitive spot behind his ear, over and over in a soothing motion. With a tight squeeze, eyes falling shut, Tristan pulls him close to whispers a couple words in his own dialect, soft and lyrical despite the rough breaking of his voice on the final syllable. He presses a brief kiss to each of Galahad’s pink cheeks before bringing their foreheads together. Warm breath caresses his mouth as they breath as one.

Galahad repeats the words back to him.


End file.
